The Spring We Stole Roses

While our peas thawed
and the milk sweat blots on the paper sack
my mother stood me lookout.
I hadn't known that wild roses grew beside the grocery store
or that this warm air coaxed their blooming.
My mother had shears in the car.
Her hands danced through the leaves
for tight, pink buds
and I scanned the parking lot for anyone who would stop us.
The rhythm of her rustling and snipping
rushed above my jolting heart.
She offered me blossoms
as the vase of her fingers filled,
yet even as the bouquet formed in my hands
I imagined I was someone else's daughter,
the child of a woman who paid for plastic-sleeved flowers.

The store, now, is an office building
where pavement meets the wall
precluding all roses.
My mother and her hands
are gone.  Now when the spring wind blows warm
I want to be my mother's child.
I imagine how she'd plan our escape,
and I know
how she'd fill my hands with the sweet tips of life.

© The Spring We Stole Roses by Kayla Pobboravsky